


Stupid Accidents

by MiaSchwarz



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: At least that is a real tag, Awkward Jack Zimmermann, Check Please! - Freeform, I cant tagg please send help, Jack Zimmermann's walks of shame, Jack is an adult though somehow I hope, Jack is ashamed, LITERALLY, M/M, OMG Check Please - Freeform, OMG Check Please!, Sporting Accident, nobody gets hurt seriously, weird injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:24:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8590645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaSchwarz/pseuds/MiaSchwarz
Summary: Accidents can happen to everyone, Jack Zimmermann knows that. What he does not know is, why his accidents are stupid.





	

**Author's Note:**

> No special warnings because no description of gooey details. Everything is fine in the end, Jack has just a strike of bad luck and deals with it. Watch out for mistakes, because no beta and no native-speaker.

Chapter 1

As a professional athlete and therefor training to be one almost his entire life, Jack Laurent Zimmermann was well acquainted with injuries in general. All the skating, running, training and body building regularly got along with hitting into hard objects, tripping and falling down or stretched and overused muscles. Even without the never ending row off on-ice-accidents, a regular competitive play always left his body battled, with hurting hands and teeth, aching joints and exhausted muscles, lungs burning and bristling with every hard breath, head throbbing and his mind in a dizzy fog. Jack knew all of it from personal experience and from witnessing those nearby himself suffering through the same states, sometimes even worse.

Jack Zimmermann was confident enough to call himself a professional athlete with high moral standards who enjoyed playing good Ice-Hockey. He knew the really fundamental rules before they literally applied to himself the first time by finally joining an NHL-Team. Being a professional Hockey-Player meant at first points a lot of work, a good diet, a focused mindset and occasionally getting injured. Injuries and health issues where not only topics the media leered for, it was always a serious issue for the athlete, at least in Jack's mind. He knew health and keeping your body at its best functional state was some kind of faith. A tricky injury, a devastating illness, personal health related disadvantages … Jack had seen and been through the process of understanding what 'heart and healthy' really meant. It was an underrated state of luck to be healthy, strong and in good spirits. Health was a point, Jack Zimmermann had on his mind all the time, contemplating not only his own physical and psychological status but also about those close to him. Hockey was important, but so was knowing and making sure, that he himself and those he cared for where 'heart and healthy'.

When Zimmermann joined the Falconer's Roster, he was in his mid twenties, though one of the bigger guys still more than willing to gain muscles, and he was eager to play. He attended as much training as possible, was building up his physique, tended to his proper medication and mental observations with meticulous care, did his duties and responsibilities for the team with quiet determination and was absolutely ready to go. He got along with the team and his roster more than well and soon found himself as a part of the Falconer's-Family and he felt more than content with that situation. He even made friends, in his awkwardly reserved and short-lipped teasing kind of way. And so after no time at all, Jack felt for some of his new teammates nearly as strongly as for his friends from Samwell. Jack Zimmermann was strong, athletic and a great teammate, when he joined his new team and if someone was threatened, he stood up with all his caring loyalty.

Surprisingly enough all this never led to Jack Zimmermann being anything like his father on the ice (and in life generally). Where Bob was all teasing and riling up his opponents, Jack was all giving directions and recalling updates to change the team's tactics. Bob was a physical offensive player on a mission, never running from a fight. Jack was offensive, too, but he was more elegant moves and superior technique, strong, forceful and well thought through. Many of the physical injuries Bob took home from the ice where caused by fighting or roughing during the play. So even Jack's injuries where different, because they where mostly a result of the speed of the game and therefor caused by real accidents or sloppy/overly eager behavior. Jack was never the player who instigated fights, but he would jump in to interfere or protect. But he had to admit, that some injuries he had shown Eric at home where very similar to those his dad had shown him and his mother. Every one of his teammates was moaning about the same aches like him, so he thought of most of his aching body parts like some kind of work related injuries he and his kind where more prone to get into, because they earned their money by playing Ice-Hockey at a professional level and that meant a physical play between a wild bunch of burly guys hunting a chunk of black rubber with metal-blades under their feet and armed with sticks in high-speed. Just a matter of time until someone gets hurt, not very nice, but that's the game.

Jack Laurent Zimmermann knew all of this when he was led to the medical center underground of the arena by their trainer, their head-medic, his personal trainer, his personal medical assistant and George. The roaring fans and noises of the play where fading away the deeper Jack and his trail got into the building. He was still wearing his full gear and holding his stick in both hands, his vision blurry and he was led to the medical unit by their trainer, but all Jack could think about was the searing pain in his abdomen while he tried not to cry or vomit or both. Just one step after another, that was all his brain could process at the current state of his body. At some point he got ripped out of his clothes and lurched into a medical seat under a bright light with his legs spread wide. Before he could even think of anything the appointment was already over, no hospital, everyone seemed relieved somehow and Jack was running an IV with painkillers. The easement of the medication to his system was like an invisible blanket and Jack took a deep breath. Then suddenly Eric appeared at his side, with a worried look and holding Jack's taped-up hand and all. The taller man was confused, one moment he was roughed into a brawl on the ice. The next moment he had to get his butt off the ice as fast as possible because his pelvis felt like there was a stick shoved up his arse. And now he was sitting in a very plush armchair, wearing fluffy Falconer's training clothes, a cap, an IV in his arm and his boyfriend was sitting next to him on a chair, watching him with big, worried eyes. He had recently said something, if the waiting silence was any indication. At least Eric finally seemed to understand that Jack's brain was not all there with him, because the younger man just sighed, smiled, gave Jack a small peg on the nose and went to ask the doctors and maybe George about details.

Details … Jack's mind wound itself around the word with no real purpose. His mantra go-on's and just-breathe's had served him well enough until now, at least it felt like no time at all had passed between getting back on his skates somehow and arriving in the underground unit getting the examination results. Time felt strange to Jack, but the worst seemed to be over, or something. He leaned back into the armchair and felt a sharp sting between his legs that made him freeze in mid-movement. Right, the reason he was here in the first place, he was literally sitting right on top of it. Jack tried to lift his body up a bit for a more comfortable position by pushing himself up with his arms on the rests of the chair only to be reminded of the needle poking in the nook of his right arm. He struggled to move through the pain without causing more of it and resisting the urge to stretch his arm in reflex, because then he would land square on his butt and that … he should just avoid that somehow. With grinding teeth and tightly shut eyes he huffed through the discomfort and draped himself somehow awkwardly but finally a bit more comfortable over the armchair. The effort was exhausting and he forgot about the needle again only to be reminded painfully when he tried to brush his hand through his hair. Jack felt pretty ridiculous and miserable, but thankfully he got distracted by a loud racket going on outside the door of the room. He could hear whispered shouting and something shoved around and some roughing, than suddenly silence. The door opened slowly and very quiet, letting in the brighter light of the corridor. Just as slowly someone carefully went to look into the room, somebody with a Falconer's-Ice-Hockey-Helmet, it was Tater.

“Heeeeeey”, Tater cried with a whispered shout, opened the door wider and entered the room, in full gear. Behind him was a frowning Georgia and a trail of wet spots on the floor, but Tater just closed the door in the younger woman's face with a forceful thud. Finally in the room, he placed his stick against the wall like it was very fragile. Than he started to completely undress himself, folding his Equipment neatly on a free chair. When he was finally just in his under-armor he carefully knelled down next to Jack, placed his big hands on the younger man's shoulder's and smiled broadly.

“Heeeeeey”, he shout-whispered again and shook Jack's shoulders playfully, just a little bit. “What you been doing, Jack? You just sitting on your butt and than your face brakes? Huh?”

Jack chuckled at the big Russian's bad English and his stupid face, but ugh, that stung again in his pelvis and it must have shown on his face. Tater immediately took his hands away from the smaller man and held them out like in surrender.

“I not hurt you? I try to be careful! Am so sorry! What is hurting?”

There was the question, as inevitable as predicted.

“What are you even doing here, Tater? The game can't be over?”, Jack was still not back into his current timezone.

“Ah, no no, is third period still. But I had to leave anyway you know, penalty and things. I make sure, stupid Captain asking stupid questions to distract Tater is doing well, of course.” The taller man placed his hands carefully on Jack's thighs and squeezed almost gentle. Jack appreciated the effort and the sentiment behind it and smiled.

“So, Jack, you going to tell uncle Tater what happened to Captain's pretty face on the ice, yes?” With his deep voice and the strong accent the big Russian athlete would be quite intimidating, Jack thought, if it wasn't for the joyful appearance and the dopey brown puppy-eyes. Jack was privately pretty glad that Alexei of all people had struggled his way down to be at his side. He would never admit though how lonely and scared he felt until the big guy came lumbering through the door. He would most likely scold him for unsportsmanlike behavior or some stupid junk. And he would also, despite the great relief of feeling safe with his Russian friend, very much like to avoid answering his question. But sooner or later, it would spread around anyway and handling the whole business like an actual adult was always a good idea. So Jack sighed deeply and covered one of Tater's hands with his left.

“Sorry, little Tater, come home for dinner? It's … pretty weird. And I really want to go home.”

Jack was also capable to switch on the sad-puppy-eyes to get a sneaky demand into his wishes. Together with a deep frown it worked most of the time. But Tater saw right through it, the sly clot, he chuckled, but stood up on his feet anyway. He offered Jack a hand to get up as well.

“Good thinking! Dinner by Jack's small boyfriend is great! And desserts, too! Why you still tied to plastic-bag?” Tater hopped around Jack and poked his face playfully. Jack swatted him away with his free hand and was rescued by the door opening and a group of people pouring into the room with a lot of fussing, prodding, questioning and excitement. At least they won the game and Jack hoped they could finally go home.

 

Chapter 2

It wasn't that Jack was ashamed or embarrassed to get injured. Getting sick was something else, but getting hurt somehow was, well, just part of the job. And he even did not mind the pain or the scars that much. Sure, he would always prefer waking up without some kind of ache, but that where just small inconveniences most of the time.

So Jack Zimmermann was not one to fuss about the occasional puck or stick in his face. He would not moan over exhausted joints and muscles and never even winced when bruises and scratches had to be cared for. Okay, Jack would totally admit, that getting ill was another story. It was hard for him to accept the fact that his body wasn't acting to his total will. And he always felt miserably petty and weak while being sick and … he just hated being sick, full-stop. It was terrible, unnecessary and it sucked. But he was never tired to try anyway, always ending well cared for. Mostly by Eric, who also had a great talent to sooth the stoic Canadian athlete's hurt pride and get him back on the ice in no time.

But … Jack was contemplating the fact, that there seriously are stupid accidents and therefor even more stupid injuries. And he was starting to think, that his “glorious ass” was prone to the most stupid injuries at all. Jack Zimmermann was not an overly superstitious guy. He just liked the routine behind the calming actions most people tend to mystify into something else. Jack prided himself to be a sophisticated, educated and open minded human being, but … Why was this happening to him?

The first time he got hurt like an idiot on the ice was during a televised game with a grand show for the opening. He was getting to the ice leading his team to the arena, lingering along the entrance, holding with one gloved hand onto the door and taking his time, waiting for the announcements to stop. He was supposed to stand at the entrance while his team got on the ice. After his name was announced, the audience roared up and the rink was lit brightly. Jack smiled and blinked his vision free, pushing himself off the door with a sharp push off the side, when his arm was violently pulled back. At least it felt like someone was pulling his left arm, especially his hand, more precisely his left thump. The pull was so forceful, it got Jack off-balance, rucking him down twisted around the middle on the ice. What actually happened was somebody closing the Plexiglas-door just when Jack pushed himself into movement. In a split of a second, the glove of his left thumb got caught in the tightly closing door and jerked Jack's arm back harshly. His lower body followed into the movement, but the gloved hand was still stuck high up. Eventually his hand slid out of the glove and Jack crashed with a dull thump flat on his stomach.

The rest was a blur of flashing lights, deafening noise, rushed movements. At least he had no idea what exactly happened first, he was actually grateful for the silence during his medical treatment. The thump was just dislocated and after roughly 30 minutes in the medical unit Jack was ready to watch the game back in the arena. It was just his thump, no need to fuss around so much and calling Eric immediately to get him home this instant so he could rest and sleep and take off his phone … this was ridiculous and Jack stomped back to the arena with determination. On his way through the corridors he was met by several staff-members who greeted him short-lipped and seemed to be in a big rush. Jack didn't mind though, they where most likely busy during the game.

He made his way to the locker-room finally, because he was in half gear, but wanted to change into nicer clothes, have a look after his hair. And his breath definitely. Everywhere in the building where TV's hung from the ceilings to show the happenings on the ice. Jack was pretty interested to get updated. Recently there was a play-review because of a tricky situation, so they showed details of it and took the chance to update the fans on Jack's condition. A sound of relief and cheer from the arena overrun the tiny TV-Speaker's and Jack had to smile at the excitement only to freeze during the next sequences. They showed what had happened in agonizing loops. When the commentators announced the game going on for the last 2 minutes, Jack went into movement to get dressed. He had 10 minutes, maybe 15 until his teammates would start to arrive in the dresser-room. He aimed to leave the building through the nearest side-exit in 5 minutes to avoid any human being that witnessed his stupid stunt until he got home to rest, sleep and put off his phone first things of all.

Chapter 3

Another ridiculous accident happened while the arena was modernized. And in Jack's opinion, renovating the rink while using it did not sound too clever, but nobody had asked him.

“Seriously, Zimmermann”, the head-coach looked at his maybe most famous forward and couldn't decide if he was mad or amused, “I kind of want to shout at your stupid Canadian face”, Jack hunched into himself on the medical bench, clutching two ice-bags against his chest with a miserable face, “but I also want to laugh my ass off, because … Seriously, Zimmermann? You gotta be kidding me …”, if possible, Jack looked even more miserable. The head-coach sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Jack felt pretty terrible, if the violent red flush on his cheeks was any indication.

“I … I was in thought. I … guess?”, gosh he deserved to be laughed at until the end of all time. He deserved the crowd of fans witnessing him being as stupid as possible. He was not sure if he deserved the Falconer's media-team filming him for all the world to see when he took a sharp stroke on the ice, aiming for the exit, stick loosely in his hands, preparing for the little hop to leave the ice onto the step of the door when: PANG! Yes, Jack contemplated, maybe he even deserved the camera-crew and the inevitable millions of clicks on 'his' video. He lifted his head to look at his coach.

“Good god, Zimmermann, don't gimme _that_ kind of look. You are nearly thirty and 250 pounds on 6 foot 2 earning millions of bucks and you moved off the ice like a fucking idiot and you give me _that_ look? Christ, someone call his man to get him offa here before I start crying. What a day …” the older man muttered to himself on his way out of the room, leaving the door open and Jack alone.

Jack sighed and that hurt and the ice-bags did nothing but freeze his hands and nipples off. This was agony and Jack knew that he was a big lump of self pity, wallowing in his self-caused misery. But it really hurted a lot, like falling face down on the boards without a break from speed. It didn't help that an actual Hockey-Stick against the chest at 15 kilometers per hour would cause even more pain or could have even knocked him out or worse. He could have lived without that special information due to personal experience. It also didn't help that he could be glad he didn't get a concussion from the fall because he was dutifully wearing his helmet tightly and all his protection-gear. He couldn't give a weak fart for his helmet and protectors and stupid fancy underarmor. It definitely did not help that his team-mates where so very tactfully sympathetic and non-threatening around him, saying it was not _that_ bad, sharing stories about own stupid accidents and patting him on the shoulder encouragingly. Jack was ready to break something and scream in frustration. How was this even happening to him? He was just about to leave the ice for the loo, just a bit in thought about his last move against Snowy, lifting his left leg in expectation of the step to the benches like thousands of times before. And then it hit him right across the chest like a whip and he was punched down by his own stupid stick hitting the glass-barriers on both sides of the exit-whole.

In his surprise Jack's first reflex was to get back on his feet and run straight to the locker-rooms. His chest was hurting, every breath stung and moving his arms felt like lifting invisible weights. Instead of getting into the locker-room he forced himself to ignore every comments, questions, jokes and people in general until he was safely hidden away in the medical-examination-room he liked the most.

It was just not fair at all. Sure, every player shared his respectable amount of time in medical care, but this … Jack was pretty sure, he was the only one staying here so much of his time because of plain right stupidity. And everyone was so understanding and tactful and never tried to make fun of him. That was the worst. As if he didn't feel dumb enough on his own, the toadying was it's own kind of torture. Of course, Jack would appreciate a certain lack of chirping and going-on-his-nerves in general, but he felt ashamed for the accidents and everyone knew it and danced around him like he might seriously implode suddenly.

Jack was jerked out of his moping by his phone buzzing in his duffle-bag. He peeled the ice-bags off his skin to get the device, it was his father. Of course it was his father and he called because Bitty would still need an hour to arrive and ask him to call meanwhile. Jack sighed, and it still hurt. But Bob was talkative as usual so Jack just listened. He even forced out a chuckle when his father retold a story of him and his uncles drunk on the backyard-ice-rink and one of them had to go to hospital because he broke his legs tripping over his own stick. It was all so very nice and thoughtful, but it really just didn't help Jack. Sure, the teasing and bad joking and the media's reaction would be annoying. But this situation … Jack wanted to cry and maybe he did because his dad suddenly became serious and concerned on the other hand. Jack told him he was okay, just in pain and exhausted, to send _maman_ his love and ending the call with another deep sigh, that was hurting, of course.

_ _ _

“Oh, babe, what happened to you? Are you hurt?”, usually Jack would be happy to see his husband, but his mood was pretty down.

“I am sure, you know exactly what happened, Eric!”, Jack snarled and glared at the younger man who had the decency to look down on the floor and turn red, at least.

“Well, yeah, I … I saw the video”, Jack didn't expect that and turned pale, but Eric lifted his hands to wait, “just on the camera-screen from the media-team, it's not online … yet … I guess …”, Jack groaned and sunk into himself, just to bolt upright with a sharp hiss because, yes, his chest still hurt, a lot actually.

“I am so sorry, babe. Does it hurt badly? Do you have to cool your chest?” The smaller man started fussing around and Jack smiled at him fondly.

“I am sorry I snapped at you, Bits”, Eric finally found the ice-bags, gave them to Jack and sat down next to him.

“It's okay, I mean, I'm sorry for trying to fool you, dear”, he leaned against Jack lightly and the older man enjoyed the warm contact.

“I … I hate this. I feel so stupid and these injuries … I feel ashamed of them. They are just so … I don't know.” If he wasn't clutching some soggy icy stuff against his chest he would have ruffled his hair in frustration. But at least he was still learning a bit and tried to avoid the angry sting along his chest.

“Babe, maybe you should try to change your mindset about that? Try to see it from another side? I mean, there is nothing you can do about that anyway. Maybe make a thing out of it like for your fans, I don't know, dorky nerd vs seriously professional superstar or something?”, Jack clearly appreciated Bitty's try to cheer him up, though it was no real help.

“It's not that, I can laugh about myself just fine, but … How is it funny to get tangled in your equipment to brake a toe and sprain your tailbone because you crashed through the door into your head-coaches office? In-front of your whole team?”, Jack asked with a tired voice.

“Well …”

“And how is it nothing but embarrassing to get a super-weird boner on a roady and nearly burst a vessel during the following practice so the doctors have to literally get you off, because otherwise it could have caused a varicose vein at your balls?”, Jack hoped he sounded as frustrated and severely done with it all as he felt.

“Yeah … I think, I get the point”, Eric admitted silently in defeat.

“In comparison to twisting your balls, THAT is definitely a lot more _interesting_ ”, a female voice piped into the conversation, Georgia had found her way to the couple and she sat down on a chair that stood next to the bench.

“In comparison to THAT, it was definitely a lot more _mortifying_!”, Jack parroted her choice of words and tried to glare at her.

“Don't be mad at me, Jack. I didn't send the media-team.”, Jack was not impressed and Georgia sighed.

“Does it help if I tell you equal stories about Marty? Or Snowy?”, she offered to cheer him up and Jack even smiled at her.

“No, but thank you”, he shoved the not-so-cold-anymore ice-bags into her hands and stood up to get clothed.

“My dad nearly broke his jaw for the second time just the same way”, Eric and Georgia looked up at him hopefully as if to say 'see?', “but it was outside and dark and it was snowing and he was totally drunk”, Eric and Georgia deflated and sighed in unison while Jack dressed carefully .

“Actually, he was so drunk, he couldn't get back on his feet alone and my uncles where lying around him laughing their drunken asses off being no help. My mother had to literally drag Bob to the car by his feet to get him to a hospital”, Eric and Georgia snickered at the story.

“And in the hospital he vomited on the reception desk, tried to bury his face into the cleavage of a very busty nurse and fell asleep in the MRT. Mom was … mad”, Eric shook his head giggling and Georgia could hardly contain the laughter. Jack had to call defeat to his socks and shoes, he just had to ask for help or go without, whatever.

“Yeah, at least my dad's stories are funny, even if he had to sleep in the guestroom pretty often in hindsight. But this, _this_ is just … stupid and embarrassing.” Jack heaved a very deep sigh, because he forgot about the _minor injury of frontal thorax caused by accidental hit (self-induced)_ and grunted angrily through the pain with his eyes closed. He fought against the tears, but … he seriously felt like crying. And yelling. And tearing down this part of the building. 

Instead Jack Zimmermann did not heave a very deep sigh again. He decided to just feel miserable for now, get home and stay there to get well again like the good professional athlete that he was, watch all the documentaries he missed for a while, make a cheat day or two, take full advantage of Eric fussing around him … Jack Zimmermann was a professional athlete, intelligent and educated, a force to behold on the ice and some people even say, he was a rather pretty guy. He was determined, a winning type who fought through defiance to get better. But this, he decided, was beyond him and there was nothing, no camaraderie, no sympathy, no shared stories, nothing that would make this string of stupid accidents any less annoying. These where incidents, that would undoubtedly follow him until forever. Maybe even until his athletic career was long in the past. This whole misery was just something, Jack Zimmermann had to face along the way to … somewhere, just like everybody else, nothing he could do to change it, but acting like the superior adult he claimed to be. However enough was enough and as if pouting and moping would make anything better, he started right on the spot.

At some point Jack had closed his eyes again, he realized when he opened them again and saw his small husband next to him, smiling like he hung the moon after all and softly stroking his arm.

"How d'ya feel, hun?”, Eric asked with a light voice, hardly able to contain some smirk. “Such a bad hit and all the fuss …”, he tutted and carefully snuggled against Jack's side for a quick hug.

"Hmmmmm”, Jack mimicked deep thought and hugged Eric back gently. 

"I feel like I deserve some serious lazyness at home”, Jack announced, Eric hummed and nodded in agreement.

"Extensive lounging on soft surfaces seems adequate, too. As well as light entertaining … ”, Jack added casually.

"But of course”, Eric let go of Jack to take the athletes bag and tag him out of the room by one hand.

"And I think some non-diet nutrition would be in order. What do you think?”, Jack asked nonchalantly while Eric opened the passenger door of the car for him.

"Oh, absolutely, my dear! Anything special and in particular?”, Eric looked at Jack and despite the kidding, he still felt pretty bad and pissed and petty and yes, slumping down into the seat was _again_ not his greatest idea of the day.

"Maybe … some pastries? And … Ice-cream? Definitely ice-cream! Uhm …”, Jack was not used to being pouty and demanding, he had to admit for himself, but Bits was all in.

"Say no more, my dear! Behold the pampering! You don't know what's coming”, Jack got a light pad on his hand, a wink, a smile and the prospect of getting spoiled. He felt lightly better at least, but he could still life without being the accidental fool all the time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> See? All is well. And in case you ask what happened to Jack at the beginning, he suffered from testicular torsion, well ...
> 
> Please note:  
> OMG Check Please! and all characters  
> I used belong to Ngozi Ukazu only  
> and are not mine!


End file.
